


Security Breach

by Tosa



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Asexuality, Drabble, Self-Blame, hints of harassment, non sburb AU - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tosa/pseuds/Tosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a startling encounter, Dirk tries to figure out how he caused it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Security Breach

Your clothes drop to the floor in a way that could almost be described as graceful. They lie crumpled at your feet with your dignity as you work up the courage to make eye contact with the other you in the mirror. You feel worse without your shades, but you want to see yourself without the dark film over your eyes, without censoring the imperfect face, the high cheekbones dusted with freckles that only accentuate their sharpness, the angular chin, the pursed line for a mouth. You dislike your face, but by a considerable margin less than all the rest of that stuff going on down south of the equator.

You think of Jane pinching her shapely hips and your brother binding his chest and think you don’t have a right to be hating your body as much as you do now, but you can’t help it. Everything about it looks malformed, discolored, _skinny._ You wish you were nothing more than the average teenaged boy yearning for the day he can be “big” (shut up, Jake, that movie was terrible) just like all the ideal males in his society. But it’s not about strength and masculinity. Though it is, you suppose, about being normal. Or abnormal, in your case.

You just don’t see what’s supposed to be appealing. It’s all just skin stretched over muscle. You touch a bruise, chiaroscuro against your geek complexion, a sign that even though you don’t see the point, someone else does, enough to cause that.

You trace purple up your arm, thick lines, and if you stare at them long enough you can almost see the strange fingers once attached to them. Much like when you look at your naked body, you feel very little seeing these marks. The fact that they are unaccompanied should mean victory on your own part, but you don’t understand. For a person as intelligent as you, the concept is frustrating, and so you’ll work until you figure it out.

You are a computer compiling data. You can imagine the numbers – your measurements, evidence pointing to unremarkably narrow hips, to average height (“You’ll grow,” Dave promised), to big and bony hands that amble with surprising grace for their disproportionate size. Your IQ is tossed into the mix, along with your dick size – filed under “hidden folders” because really there _isn’t_ any way to tell when your clothes are on – your shoe size (the same as Dave’s), and the relative symmetry of your face (seventy percent). The color of your eyes are coded and stored away, along with the palette representing the vast range of white in your skin and a straw-like shade of yellow for your hair. You reduce everything to numbers, even the angle of your cheekbones, and try to mentally calculate the probability of this happening to you again.

You’re going to need more data. Your weight is added in, your body mass index, the straightness of your teeth, your age. How fast you can run a mile (quicker than a cheetah), the maximum quantity you have bench-pressed without passing out (a lot), the likelihood of you crying during a climactic Tom Hanks speech in a movie (classified). You just keep finding more until it ceases to be about the skinny, naked boy on the surface of the mirror and more about Dirk Strider, a real and actual human being who is so much more than what can be witnessed at a glance.

Every time the results are the same as if you have divided by zero. Data inconclusive. There is no special reason why this happened to you. He was just some stranger, some pervert, and to him you were nothing more than blonde and thin and young.

With a sigh, you start to get dressed again. You’re sick of looking at yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> …This was originally going to be a drabble about asexuality, but it turned into something more than that.  
> No noncon warnings because Dirk wasn’t actually raped, as implied by comment that his bruises are “unaccompanied”. Dirk probably socked the guy for harassing him, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t get a bad scare out of the ordeal.


End file.
